“Didn’t you feel bad?”

“Sometimes, when I was lying in bed thinking about the way my life was going, course I did. But then you think about it some more and you got money and power, so in the end you persuade yourself there was nothing in it. You tell yourself it’s the law of the jungle, the strong against the weak. And I was strong, that’s the way I saw it then. But I wasn’t strong. I was a bully, hiding behind a 2–2, and I was foolish. Young, proud, full of shit and foolish. But the way I saw it, I knew the players we was going after was doing the same shit to other people. It’s kind of like — this is the road — this is how it is. If you don’t like it, get off the road.”

“What happened?”

“In the end?” He shook his head and sucked on his teeth. “In the end, younger, it happened like it was always gonna happen. We rolled a crack house only this time the Tottenham boys were wise to it. They had a couple of mash men with blammers there themselves, waiting for us. Soon as we got in there they pulled them out and started shooting the place up. I took out my strap and fired back. Didn’t know who I was shooting at. Bad things happened.”

“You killed someone?”

“Like I said, bad things happened. I had to get away, so I signed up for the Army.”

“How old were you?”

He turned the question around. “How old you say you are?”

“Fifteen.”

“That’s right. I had just five short years on you, younger. I’m thirty-six now. I got out six months ago. I did sixteen years in the Army. Two wars. Longer than you been around in this world.”

“Shit.”

“Yeah, that’s right — shit. You see why I do what I do now, JaJa? I know where the road is gonna take youngsters like you if you don’t pay attention. There ain’t no chance it can go anywhere else. I know I probably sound like it sometimes, but I ain’t trying to patronise. I just know. You follow the road you’re on for too much longer, you’ll get in so deep you don’t even know how to begin getting out. And then, one day, the road will take you, too. You’ll get shot, or shanked, or you’ll do it to someone else and the Trident will lock you up. And, either way, that’ll be it — the end of your life. If I can help a couple of you boys get straight, get off the road, then, the way I look at it, I’m starting to give back a little, pay back the debt I owe.”

The door to the street opened and Pinky came inside. Elijah stiffened.

“You know him?” Rutherford said.

“Yeah. Does he come here, too?”

“Used to, but I haven’t seen him for a while. You two get on?”

“Not really.”

“No, I bet — he’s not an easy one to get along with. He’s got a whole lot of troubles.” Rutherford got up as Pinky approached them. “Easy, younger,” he said. “How’s it going? Ain’t seen you for a couple of weeks.”

“Been busy.” The boy said it proudly, and Elijah knew exactly what he meant.

“That right? How much you made this week, playa?”

“Huh?”

“Your Ps. I know you been shotting. I saw you, up on the balcony at Blissett House. How much?”

Pinky stared at Elijah and grinned as he said, “Five-o-o.”

Rutherford sucked his teeth. “Five hundred,” he said. “Not bad.”

“Not bad? Better than you’ll make all month.”

“Probably right,” he conceded with an equable duck of his head. “So, let me get that straight… five hundred a week, over a whole year, you keep taking that you’re gonna end up with what, twenty-five thousand? What you gonna do with that much money?”

“I’m gonna buy me a big-screen TV, a new laptop, some games, some clothes and shoes and then I’m gonna save the rest. I got plans, get me?”

“That right?”

“Yeah,” he said, a little aggression laced in the reply. “What about it?”

“Where you gonna save it?”

“What you mean? In a bank — where else?”

Rutherford shook his head. “You’re sixteen years old. You telling me you’re going to walk into the NatWest and give them twenty grand and tell them to stick it in your account? Really? That’s your plan?”

“Yeah.”

“No you ain’t.”

“Fuck you!” he said. “It’s my money. Mine. They can’t take it off me. No-one can.”

“You take it into a bank and I’ll tell you exactly what’s gonna happen — they’ll be onto the Feds before you’re halfway out the door, next thing you know you’re on the deck eating pavement and then you’ll do time. That’s if you last that long. Because what’ll most likely happen is some brother will nick it off you. And while they’re at it, they’ll probably merk you, too. And it’s no good being rich when you’re dead.”

“Fuck you man,” he spat. “Fuck you know?”

Rutherford absorbed his invective and stared back at the boy with a cold hardness in his eyes that Elijah had not seen before. For a moment, it was easy to imagine the intimidating effect he must have had when he was younger. “What do you mean, what the fuck do I know? You know where I’ve come from. You know what I been, what I’ve done. I don’t have to put up with your shit, either. Go on, you don’t want to listen to me, fuck off. Go on. If you want to stay, then stay. I’ll tell you how you can make that kind of money, but legit so you can put it in a bank account, so no-one’s gonna take it off you and drop you stone dead.”

Pinky squared up, and, for a moment, Elijah expected him to fire back with more lip. Rutherford stood before the boy implacably, calm certainty written across his face. He was not going to back down.

“Aight,” Pinky said, and the tension dissipated in a sudden exhale. He forced a grin across his face. “Cotch, man. I’m just creasing you.”

“Get your kit on if you want to stay,” Rutherford told him sternly. “You’ve gotten all flabby, all this time you been taking off. You got some catching up to do.”

“Funny man.” Pinky hiked up his Raiders t-shirt. He was thin and wiry, the muscles standing out on his abdomen in neat, compact lines. “Don’t chat grease. Flabby? Look at this — I’m ripped, playa.”

“Get yourself in the ring. I got someone who’ll see whether you still got what it takes.”

“That right? Who’s that?”

Rutherford turned to Elijah. “You up, younger. Get new wraps on. The two of you can spar. Three rounds.”

Pinky looked at Elijah and laughed. “Him?” he said derisively. “Seriously?”

“Talk’s cheap, bruv. You think you can take him, let’s see it in the ring.”

“I’m on that,” he said, firing out a quick combination, right-left-right. “This little mandem gonna get himself proper sparked.”

Pinky went back to the changing room and, when he returned, he had changed into a pair of baggy shorts that emphasised his thin legs. Elijah wrapped his fists again and laced up his gloves. The two boys stepped through the ropes and, at Rutherford’s insistence, touched gloves. Pinky was older than Elijah but they were similar in physique. He came forward aggressively, fighting behind a low guard and firing out a barrage of wild combinations. He was quick but not particularly powerful or accurate, and Elijah was able to absorb the onslaught without difficulty, taking it on his arms or dodging away. He spent the first round that way, absorbing his attacks and firing back with stiff punches that beat Pinky’s absent guard, flashing into his nose or against his chin. Elijah knew that his punches were crisp rather than powerful, but that was alright. He was not trying to hurt Pinky, not yet. Each successful blow riled the older boy and he came forward with redoubled intent. Elijah let him, dancing away or smothering the blows when he could not, letting Pinky wear himself out.

Rutherford rang the bell as the first two-minute round expired and the two boys broke to separate corners to take a drink.

“I’m gonna dook you up, younger” Pinky called across the ring, lisping around his mouthguard.

“Didn’t do nothing first round,” Elijah retorted. “Look at me — I’m hardly even sweating.”